He clumped back to the wide bed, which was the one captain’s prerogative that he liked. His body was too tall for most of the bunks and even the hammocks used by the crew. He closed his eyes, though he suspected he wouldn’t sleep.
Jenna woke to the soft cry of a child.
Young Meg was feverish and thrashing. Robin apparently woke when she did, for he moved swiftly to the side of the cot.
“Meg?” he asked.
Jenna wished she had some snow, some ice cold water even. Something was needed to take down the fever. Instead, she poured warm water into a cup and offered it to Meg. Feverish eyes looked at her, the misery in them deep.
Rob looked up at her frantically.
“You had best fetch Hamish,” Jenna said. She wet a cloth and bathed Meg’s face. The child’s eyes met hers and seemed to plead. The dislike was gone. So was the defiance. There was only fear. It went straight to Jenna’s heart.
When Rob left, she poured some water on the cloth and lifted Meg’s shift and washed her body. It was far too thin. She knew by now the child had been a fugitive in the Highlands, but surely in the succeeding weeks she should have gained more weight.
One more mark against the ship’s captain. She was having increasing trouble trying to figure out the tangled relationship between the children, the captain, and the other members of the crew. Whenever she thought the captain might have at least a small part of a heart, a new piece of information would completely destroy that vein of hope.
She moved the poultice. The wound looked even angrier than before. At least it was draining a little. She thought that a good sign.
She covered Meg and went to the cabinet, searching for the bottle of laudanum. She also needed some hot water for a new poultice, but she wanted to wait until someone was in the cabin. She did not want to leave Meg alone.
After adding a little laudanum to a cup of water, she helped Meg balance it.
“I’m cold,” Meg complained.
“I know,” Jenna said softly. She started crooning. She didn’t know what else to do. It was another lullaby about bringing home a pony. She saw an answering light in Meg’s eyes.
“Da used to sing me that,” she said.
“What about your mother?”
“She said she was not much for frivolous things.”
“Music is not frivolous,” Jenna said.
Meg’s lips compressed, and Jenna realized she’d made a mistake. In Meg’s eyes, she had criticized a dead woman. A dead woman she knew nothing about. More than that, a woman whose death had been at least partly attributed to her.
“Tell me about her,” she said after a moment of resentful silence.
“She worked hard,” Meg said. “My da was a blacksmith who left with our laird to support the bonnie prince. Ma followed, taking me with her. She cooked and did laundry for the men.
“Da was killed, and then the English started looking for anyone who was with … the prince. We hid in the hills, but they just kept searching. We hid in one cave, then another. It was cold … so wet. She got sick.”
Meg closed her eyes. Was the laudanum working or did she just not want to answer more questions? Jenna scolded herself for asking them.
Jenna leaned back. She was tired. She had needs she’d tried to repress, but were now becoming desperate. For the first time, she needed a brief respite to her cabin. But she would not leave Meg.
The door opened and the large Hamish entered. He had a pail of steaming water with him. “The lass?”
“I do not like the way the wound looks,” Jenna said. “Was it part of a cannonball?”
“No, a splinter. It drove pieces of cloth into the wound. I tried to get it all out but …” He stopped and looked at her. “Ye need some rest, my lady.”
“The captain told me to stay here,” she said.
“I dinna need two patients,” Hamish said roughly, but his eyes were kind.
“Where’s Robin?” she asked.
“He went to fetch the captain. He would want to know about Meg.”
“He would?” The doubt in her voice was obvious.
Hamish ignored the question and bent over Meg, removing the poultice from the wound.
“I would have fixed a new one but there was no hot water.”
“There is now,” he said.
Jenna stood. “I’ll do it,” she said.
He nodded. “But as soon as the captain comes, I want ye to leave and get some rest.”
She was not going to argue, even though she was torn between staying with the lass who was far more child and vulnerable than she wanted anyone to know, and seeking the rest she desperately needed. She went over to the steaming water and mixed a potion, drenching a clean cloth with it.
She carried it over to Meg. “I hate to wake her. This is going to hurt.”
“I’ll do it,” Hamish said. He leaned over. “Lass?”
After a moment, Meg opened her eyes.
“I have to replace the poultice, Meg,” Hamish said.
For the briefest moment, apprehension filled Meg’s eyes. She obviously hadn’t been that invulnerable to pain after all. She had just kept it under tight control, too tight for a child. But now she was too tired, too weak, probably too afraid to fight it any longer. She looked at Jenna with eyes that seemed to reflect all the horrors in the world. “Will … you sing the song again?”
For a moment, Jenna could not do it. Her lips trembled too much, her throat was too choked.
Hamish looked at her with steady brown eyes and gave her a brief nod.
Jenna started the song again, hearing the tremor in her own voice. She wanted to reach out and take Meg’s hand in her own, but she did not think it would be welcome. The song would have to do for the moment. Meg fixed her gaze on her as Hamish put the steaming hot poultice on the wound, and she heard the child’s indrawn breath. She continued the song, realizing it had a haunting sadness it never had before.
Meg’s world had changed nearly two years ago. So had her own. They were both venturing into new places with only their pride and determination as weapons. But Meg was still a child. Jenna had choices.
She continued as Meg’s eyes closed again.
Jenna’s voice trailed off as she became aware of another presence. She had not heard anything. She’d been concentrating too strongly on her words. But suddenly she knew the captain had entered the room, though he said nothing.
She turned around.
He was close. Too close. It made him appear even taller and more imposing. His dark blue eyes were as curtained as before, and his jaw was set and a muscle flexed in his cheek.
“You sing well, my lady,” he said, surprising her both with the softness of the words and the compliment.
“It seems to comfort her,” she explained uncomfortably.
“So I see.” He studied her, and she saw every one of her imperfections in his eyes. Her arms were bare and the livid wine-colored birthmark that covered most of her right arm was open to his slow appraisal. He had seen it before, but she still felt marked.
“You look like the devil, though,” he said. “You may return to your cabin. One of my men will bring you some food.”
“Not much rest there,” she said wryly.
“You can use mine,” he said, seeming to comprehend the situation without needing an explanation. Blanche Carrefour was not a restful person.
She must have looked startled—and horrified—for he gave her a grin that was anything but warm. She had noticed how the scar turned up one side of his mouth in a perpetual half smile, but when the other side of his lips turned upward, the expression was derisive.
His eyes challenged her, too, as if he could see straight through to her soul and found the distaste in it for him. “Do not worry, lass. You are not to my taste, even if I would sink to bedding a Campbell. I have never been that desperate, nor will I be. You can use my quarters during the day and stay with Meg at night. I want someone rested to be with her. And do not suppose I am being s
entimental. I simply do not want a Campbell expiring on me. It would be inconvenient … at this moment.” He stressed the last three words.
He was trying to frighten her.
He did not have to work hard at that. He did frighten her, even though she tried hard not to show it. She was only too familiar with the hard ways of men, their disregard of the feelings of others, particularly women.
She wasn’t sure she could believe him now, and the thought of sharing his cabin was terrifying in the extreme.
“I would rather use my own.”
“I care naught what you would rather, Miss Campbell. Rob, take her to my quarters. See that she has some food.”
She turned to look at Robin standing by the door, his eyes wider than usual, his boyish face creased with puzzlement. “Aye, sir,” he said, then blurted out, “Is Meg going to be all right?”
The question was to her, and the captain frowned. “We will not let anything happen to your Meg,” he said quietly. And unexpectedly.
Robin’s face cleared, as if words from the brigand had been those of the Almighty.
“This way, my lady,” he said.
She hesitated, still uncertain about the prospect of the captain’s cabin. But the boy was already halfway down the hall. In any case, she was totally at the mercy of Malfour in any location of the ship. From what she’d seen and heard, she doubted whether any man aboard would challenge him.
She leaned down and touched Meg gently, then followed young Robin out of the room.
The lullaby haunted Alex. So did the echo of the woman’s voice even after she left the room.
Damn her.
He did not want to be reminded of gentler years. Of family and home. Of a mother and father long gone. Of his own promising life.
He had once been an honorable man.
Now honor had no place in his life. ’Twas best to remember that.
He needed funds. He needed a great deal. He needed it for the children, to settle them safely. Then he needed enough to create a new life for himself, one in which he could bedevil the British. That had been the only thing that had kept him alive through those agonizing months of recovery.
If he had to ransom the woman to get where he wanted to be, then he would do that.
He just didn’t want to see those accusing eyes, or hear a voice that brought back too many memories and made him realize she was a person like any other. He had to regard her only as a Campbell. A thing to be despised.
Not a person with sorrows of her own.
But she had them. He’d heard them in her voice as she sang so longingly of children and ponies and gifts and safety and peace.
Why couldn’t she be haughty and arrogant and demanding and uncaring of Jacobite children?
Unwanted guilt niggled at him. She looked tired. Her eyes were red rimmed, and she must be hungry. Yet she hadn’t complained. That made him bloody angry.
He hoped she would stay in his cabin. He could sleep anywhere. In one of the hammocks if necessary. God knew he’d had far less comfortable resting places. And the bed he’d once enjoyed now seemed more a bed of thorns. He just damn well couldn’t sleep in it.
He went up on deck. Dawn was breaking. It was always his favorite time of day. The slow rising of the sun made all things seem possible. But it was a lie.
Family, children, honor, home, peace. No longer possible … for him.
Did the Campbell woman believe those things were no longer possible for her, either?
Hell, why did the Charlotte have to carry passengers?
Alex knew now he’d been lucky in the first captures. No women. Just sailors. Some of them not entirely displeased to leave an unhappy ship.
Why had he not followed his first instinct and left it alone? Meg would not be wounded and suffering. They would be on their way to Brazil, avoiding British shipping lanes. Now they might well encounter a British warship. He knew his guns would be no match for theirs. His guns were designed to intimidate unarmed merchantmen, not ships of the line.
Claude was at the wheel. “Bonjour, Captain. Our luck holds. No sign of sail.”
“Did you get some sleep?”
“Aye. Enough. You do not look as if you had any.”
Alex shrugged. “I like the dawn.”
“How is la petite?”
“Not well.”
“I am sorry to hear that. She is very brave.”
“Senseless is more like it,” Alex said.
“You do not fool me, Captain,” Claude said with a twinkle in his eyes. “You care more than you want anyone to know.”
Alex sighed. “She trusts me. That is a dangerous thing to do.”
“Non, I do not think so.”
“Then you are as senseless as she. I should have never taken that ship.”
“It had a rich cargo.”
“And more trouble than we need.”
“Not a man aboard would agree with that.”
“Go get some rest, Claude. I’ll spell you and use your quarters tonight.”
“You are the captain.”
“I gave my quarters to the woman caring for Meg.”
Claude raised an eyebrow, but shrugged. “You’re the captain,” he repeated. But something like amusement played in his eyes.
Alex gave him his most formidable frown.
Unfortunately, it did not seem to faze his second in command at all. He heard a chuckle as Claude ducked through the hatchway.
Chapter Eight
Jenna awakened as the afternoon sun touched her, and she rolled over in the comfortable bed before realization struck.
She was sleeping in a pirate’s bed.
His presence was everywhere in the cabin. It was in his scent—sea and soap and something tangy—and in his clothes—the white linen shirts with full sleeves and breeches that she knew molded his legs well—hanging on pegs or neatly folded.
There were maps and books. The latter surprised her.
He was a freebooter. She had not expected a literary side of him, and yet he had books in both English and French. Had they belonged to an earlier owner or captain? Were they merely stolen like so many other things?
A restless energy filled in the cabin. She felt it. Despite the neatness of his belongings, something vital and indomitable still lingered in the space.
What had brought that word to her mind?
Malfour. Will. Neither name fit him. They were tame. English.
He was a wild Scot, through and through.
She looked out the wide window. When she had gone to sleep, the sky had been black with clouds. Now the sun rippled the waves.
How close were they to Barbados, where her betrothed was waiting?
How far from Martinique, where the pirate said he would release them?
But then she thought of young Meg. Could she leave the child while she was still so ill?
Unable to find an answer, she looked down at her person. She’d slept in all her clothes, finding comfort in the added protection they provided. Now she felt foolish. It was obvious Will Malfour, or whatever his name was, had no interest in her.
She turned toward a pitcher filled with water and quickly used it to wash herself. Then she saw her trunk in a corner. Sometime while she was asleep, it had been brought into the cabin. She shivered for a moment, then decided anger would do no good. She’d obviously been untouched. Instead, she leaned down and opened the trunk.
Someone had gone through it but, to her surprise, what jewelry she’d left there was untouched. Her dresses, packed so carefully, were not as carefully replaced. She chose a light green muslin, not because it favored her but because it was cooler than any of her other garments. She put on a fresh shift, ignoring her corset, the one garment she had discarded last night.
The shift settled easily over her shoulders and fell in light folds to the floor. The bodice tied in front, so she needed no help.
She brushed her hair, then twisted it into the tight knot she usually wore. She knew it was unbecom
ing, but it never had seemed to matter before. No one ever looked at her. They just looked at the wine-colored birthmark that some said made her the devil’s own.
Strange, but she’d never felt like the devil’s own.
She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the years of rejection wash over her. She’d never wanted sympathy. She hated self-pity. The only thing she’d ever wanted was someone to care about her, and people for her to care about. Children.
Meg.
She looked at herself in the mirror. Her hair was heavy, and she hated the tight knot. In a moment of defiance, she allowed it to fall down her back, then plaited it in a long braid. She tied the end in a knot. It certainly wasn’t fashionable, but it was comfortable.
She hesitated at the door. Should she leave the worn dress with jewelry sewn inside? But now it should be safe enough, and Meg needed her. The beat of her heart quickened as she thought of the small lass and the way she relaxed at the sound of her voice.
Summoning her courage, she opened the door. Seeing no one, she stepped outside and walked to the sick bay.
Robin sat next to Meg. Hamish was in a chair, studying a book in front of him. He looked up and smiled. “My lady. I’m glad ye are here. I am not good at reading.” Then his eyes clouded. “Can you read?”
“Aye,” she said, eyeing the book.
“Nothing is working,” he said. “The infection is getting worse.”
She picked up the book.
“We took it from the Charlotte.” He had the grace to look embarrassed.
She looked down at the cover. It carried the name of the ship she’d been sailing. It was a medical manual describing ailments and cures.
She leafed through the book. Under “inflammation,” it said to bleed the patient. That sounded rather senseless to her since Meg was pale and already weakened by loss of blood. She read on. Cool a fever. She knew that.
She wanted to throw the book against the wall.
She gave Hamish her bravest smile. Or was it merely bravado? “I do not think bleeding will do any good.”
“Nor me, my lady.”
“We should keep her as cool as possible and drain the wound.” She hesitated, then added, “And pray.”
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